Thirsty (18 page)

I am thinking hard. I am trying not to panic.
Why is she here?
I am wondering.
Why?
She must be here for me. She is supposed to take me to the abandoned church. I bet that’s it. Otherwise there is no really obvious reason for an undead being to attend the Bradford/Clayton Carnival. It is $1.50 for just a small 7-Up. She wishes to take me to the convocation of vampires for her own dark purposes.

And that is when I realize that perhaps it would be the best thing.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I have started something by dropping that disk into darkness, and I don’t know what. I have played into Chet’s hands, and I don’t know how. But I do know that I am helpless while I’m stranded here at the carnival.

So that is what I need to do, I realize suddenly. I will go with her. I will let Lolli Chasuble take me to the hidden coven of vampires again. The wizards and sorcerers of that vampire band will be locked in their vicious ceremony, trying to interrupt the festival spells being cast on the lake. At the height of the vampires’ spells, right when the bonds are about to break, when the tension is greatest, right before Tch’muchgar hurtles back into this world through whatever convoluted means Chet may have worked out, I’ll throw myself into the center of them, call out the Lord’s Prayer, obscure their runes, gash the high sorcerer’s face with my keys, anything to botch their spells of summoning, anything to break its stranglehold, to let the festival rites be spoken.

The vampires will kill me after that. I don’t have any doubt that they will. But there is nothing else I can do.

So I will find Lolli Chasuble after all. I will have to face her sometime.

And with that, I run after Jerk and Tom. I follow their backs until I’ve caught up to them, grim and puffing.

I say, “I’m coming after all.”

“Great!” says Jerk.

“Let’s go,” says Tom.

We head toward the Rigozzis’ party.

Over the scream of people on Captain Hook’s Giddy Galleon, there is a sound of broadcasted voices. “Testing,” it says across the uneven grass, the crowds, and the litter of ticket stubs and crushed cups. “Testing.”

“They’re going to start the ritual,” says Jerk. “Cool.”

“I’m so glad you could all make it this evening,” the speakers say. “I’d like to thank everyone who made tonight’s ritual sacrifice possible and, of course, everyone involved in the committee that organized this wonderful festival, which is really great this year. Great festival! Isn’t it great? I’d like to thank them all.”

Our mayor is addressing us. We’re walking. I am picturing finding Rebecca Schwartz and talking to her, explaining myself, before I go off on my date with the daughter of the damned. There is a touching scene where Rebecca is crying at my funeral. It would be great if I could speak to her before I go.

One person needs to know of the sacrifice I’m about to make.

We pass the tilt-a-whirl. People in neon teacups are being flung out over the sweet cow-cropped grass; they’re giggling; boys are trying to lean and spin their cups; girls are screaming “No! No!”

“Father Bread,” says the mayor over the loudspeakers. “Would you do the honors?”

“Thank you, Mayor,” says Father Bread. He adds, “Ehhrm,” rattling as he takes the microphone. Then he begins, echoing out over the booths and the fields and the hot summery oaks, “We call upon the great hierarchy of angels for their aid in the shadows of night.”

The beginning of the spell of binding. That means nine o’clock. Three hours for me to find the convocation of vampires and do something to stop them.

I’m in a sweat.

The Rigozzis live on the edge of Barley’s Field in a big green Colonial house with a three-car Colonial garage. People are wandering out of the house over to the carnival and back again. Music pounds inside the house.

“Time to crash, boys!” says Tom.

“I feel bad about crashing,” I say. “What if they find out?”

“Your brother is in there.”

I say uneasily, “I’d really rather wait for an invitation.”

“God you’re impossible,” says Tom. “Come on,” he says to Jerk and walks up the steps.

“I’ll wait out here for a minute with Chris,” says Jerk. “Couldn’t we find Tony Rigozzi and ask him?”

“Christ!” says Tom. He walks up the three concrete steps to the front door. He opens the door. Inside there is music and dancing. He hesitates, just for one moment, and moves his lips together nervously. Then he walks in.

He slams the door behind him.

“Hey, bruiser,” says a voice from behind one of the bushes at the front door. “Waiting for an invitation?”

The bush waggles, and out into the light steps a young man with messy blond hair, an armless jean jacket, and a bat tattooed on his arm. “Chris, good to see you. We thought you’d come around,” he says. “Bat is my name, and it is my symbol. The bat. I move by night and seek things out by screaming.”

Jerk isn’t very comfortable. He doesn’t like Bat much.

And I see that Bat has an aura. He is a vampire. I remember the tattoo. I saw him before at that abandoned church, where he ate the flesh of women in casseroles.

He says, “Lolli Chaz is looking forward to seeing you.” And, “She has quite an evening planned for you. Come on, sucker.”

He walks up the three concrete steps to the front door. He wipes his feet on the welcome mat and swings the door open.

“Heya heya heya!” he screams. “Someone gonna invite me
in,
man?”

There’s a momentary pause inside. I can’t see past Bat. In a second, Tony Rigozzi, a junior at my school, stumbles over to the door, laughing, spilling beer from a plastic cup. “Whoa! My first day,” he says, “with my goddamn
new legs.
”

“Friend of Lolli Chasuble,” says Bat. “Can I come in?”

Tony laughs again. “Shit, yes! Everyone’s invited! What’re you waiting for, a . . . ? Get in there! My house is your house. It is! It’s your goddamn house!”

“Great, man,” says Bat, punching Tony on the upper arm. “I’m damn glad to meet you.”

“That a real tattoo?” says Tony, stubbing his fingers on Bat’s upper arm. “Man, that real?”

“No,” says Bat, secretly motioning to me with his other arm. “Got it out of a box of
goddamn Cracker Jack!
”

I walk up the steps with Jerk. We’re lingering right behind Bat.

“Lolli’s over there,” says Tony, waving his hand toward the living room. “Dancing on the table. She’s some . . .” He sizes Bat up. “So, you her boyfriend?”

“No,” says Bat.

“No? She is something,” Tony says in an undertone. “I mean, look at her.”

“She’s nice,” murmurs Bat.

They’re standing close, side by side now, needling each other in the ribs. Tony says, “Those lips were made for more than talking, huh?”

Bat smirks, says, “Heh heh heh.”

And they disappear into the living room.

The door is left open.

“We could go back to the carnie if you wanted,” says Jerk. “The, like, haunted house is only seventy-five cents. I mean, I’ve been in it four times, but there’s a really good skeleton and stuff.”

I shake my head. “No. I’ve got to go in. Come if you’d like. Or go. It’s up to you.”

I snap my fingers from nervousness. Then I go in to find her.

The party is in full swing. People are packed up and down the front stairs right near the door. They’re leaning on the dining room table and dancing in the living room. Kids are singing with the music, playing air guitar, slam dancing delicately, and gargling beer.

Lolli whirls like an Indian goddess of destruction atop a side table, scattering issues of
Good Housekeeping
with her heels. She and Jenny are dancing, pointing at each other, casting their shoulders back and forth, up and down.

Lolli’s friend Asheleighe is perched on the arm of the sofa, yelling over the music to Trunk McIntyre, “I, like, loved their first album totally, but then when their second album came out, it was like, god, way to be completely queer, all right?”

Trunk nods. After some thought, he washes the beer from one cheek to the other and swallows. He says, “Yeah!”

I pass Paul. He has waylaid Tony, blathering, “Hey, Tony, Tony, I was thinking. I brought my camcorder. It’s out the car. I was thinking, like, I could —”

“Yeah, great, man,” says Tony.

“No, Tony, I could bring it in and we could make a movie. You know, it would be fun, we’d preserve this party for future generations unseen? Do some crazy video stuff?”

“Yeah, whatever, guy,” says Tony. “My house is your house.” He turns and calls, “Chester
boy!
I see you
standin’
there, but I don’t see you
guzzlin’!
”

I look around and spot Tom standing on the other side of the room, talking with some other people from the cooler crowd in our class. One of them is Rebecca.

I work my way through the crowd.

“Hi, Chris,” Chuck, Andy, Kristen, and Rebecca say when I join them. We’re all a couple years younger and more timid than everyone else at the party, so I’m on their level for a few minutes. Tom sees that they’ve said hello to me, then he says hi, too, as if we’re just meeting up.

“Great party,” says Chuck. “That girl Lolli, who’s dancing with Jenny Morturo, she says she knows you.”

“Yes,” I say.

“You know
her?
” Tom asks, somewhat in awe. She bucks her shiny pelvis; her tan legs kick.

“Yes,” I repeat.

“From where?” says Andy.

“Around,” I say.

Jerk has come up and stood next to us, peering at Tom and Kristen and Andy as if he were one of their crowd, but he is too shy to say hello. Rebecca says hi to him anyway — “Hi, Jerk” — which I think is nice. She gives him a quick smile.

So we’re standing there.

Time is running out. I feel anxious to begin, to talk to Lolli, to get on the road, to find the abandoned church again. Maybe two hours and forty five minutes left until midnight, and the final part of the Spell of Binding is cast. Rebecca first, though. She has to know. I have to tell her.

“Rebecca?” I say. Feeling weak, I look deep into her feet. “I was wondering, I mean . . . Could . . . ?”

Everyone waits. Tom is raising his eyebrows.

“Could I talk to you for a minute?”

“Whoa whoa whoa!” says Chuck. “Looks like you’ve got yourself an admirer!” he says to Rebecca.

Andy and Chuck laugh. Tom doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to laugh or not.

I say, “You can —” And then I feel Lolli’s soft arms wrap up around my shoulders from behind, like she’s about to do the Heimlich maneuver.

“Hi there, Chris,” she says. “Saw you from over there and thought you might like to step upstairs for a little talk.”

Chuck and Andy back off a step. They are blinking. Chuck whispers, “Shit . . .” Jealously.

Rebecca is obviously disgusted. She’s looking at Kristen.

I say, “Lolli, you. I mean, I need to talk to you, too, but first I want to talk, I mean, really talk — I’d just asked Rebecca if . . . Oh, have you met?”

Rebecca smiles wanly. “No, you go upstairs,” she says damningly. “I’m sure we can talk some other time.”

“Come on,” Lolli demands, pulling on my arm. “The night’s still young.”

And I’m being pulled away through the crowd, the others staring after me, Jerk with his mouth actually open, Tom shaking his head in disbelief.

“That was . . . ,” I start to say angrily. But I’m supposed to be convincing Lolli to take me back to the convocation of vampires. So I shut up and climb the stairs between slumped, beer-stinky figures.

Bat is sitting at the top of the stairs, grinning a lazy grin and playing with a light-up yo-yo.

“Heya, sucker,” says Lolli. “How’s the thing?”

“’T’sup, suckers,” says Bat. “It’s a good thing. Good time. Good party. I’m getting a little parched. Tell me when you’re ready.”

Lolli leads me by the hand down the hall, as if we were going to our bridal bed. The hall is low and badly lit and reeks of pot smoke. There’s a line of girls outside the bathroom. After we go past them, I can hear them saying, disgusted, “Wasn’t that Christopher what’s-his-name? From, like, the freshman class or something?”

Now, I think, is the time to be evil. Now is wickedness time. I must agree to worship the Dark god Tch’muchgar, and Lolli must not suspect anything. Once again, I am struck — the cosmic damage I may have caused dropping the Arm into Tch’muchgar’s world — for who knows what Chet has in mind.
Undo what you have done,
that is what I’m thinking.
Undo what you have done.

Everything hangs on this.

We step into what must be Kathy’s bedroom and Lolli shuts the door behind us.

Because Kathy has been away at college, her room still has all the artifacts of girlhood in it, and some of the artifacts of womanhood. Plush bears and birds and moose are piled in a big googly-eyed Peaceable Kingdom on the bed, and awkward drawings of horses are pinned to the walls. Some bras hang on the closet door handle. There’s a lot of lavender around.

“I’m, like, so glad you are coming,” says Lolli, hugging me quickly.

“Let’s go,” I say. “We don’t have long until they start the spells out on the lake and in the White Hen Pantry.”

“Chris, this is, like, so great! We were so worried you were gonna ditch!”

“Lolli, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

“Okay! Let’s go!”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

“Outta here, boy!”

“Let us,” I say with some conviction, “burn some rubber.”

“First thing. Right, just one thing.” She taps me naggingly on the shoulder. “You got to make a kill, brute.”

I back one step toward the door. I can’t think. “We don’t have time,” I say.

“No, man. You want to be part of the game, you have to be blooded.”

“Blooded?”

“The blood from your first kill. Like, smeared on your cheeks.” She raises her hand, and caresses first one of my cheeks, then the other, looking, the whole time, into my eyes. I look helplessly at her tan neck and the seamless way it fans out into her chest and breasts beneath the straps of her tank top. “You have to drink,” she says.

“Oh?”

“Chet said. He said we couldn’t trust you ’til you made your first kill. Chow time.”